


his face

by takethebreadsticksandRUN



Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Burns, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical hurt/comfort, TMAHCWeek2020, and also we don't have good evidence for him sleeping around?, and tim is smart because canonically he is very very smart, for TMA hurt/comfort week 2020, like one mention of it??, ooh boy this one is rough, pre-relationship but that is unimportant, self-image issues, tim and sasha are good people, tw mention of self-harm, tw mentions of abusive relationship w/father, wrote this instead of doing my work but oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26087296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethebreadsticksandRUN/pseuds/takethebreadsticksandRUN
Summary: Martin's mother never looked at him with kindness or care. Now he knows why.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894012
Comments: 12
Kudos: 150





	his face

**Author's Note:**

> be careful chirren that's a lot of hurt! TW mention of self-harm is one sentence but i know how that can affect people so please. be safe.  
> this is for the tma writing event hurt/comfort week! unfortunately i can't put this up on tumblr (yet) so here. y'all have it! the prompt was self-image issues/pretending/shaky hands  
> let me know what you think!  
> xxx

The porcelain sink under his fingers was cold, much too cold. When had it gotten so cold? It slipped under Martin's sweaty palms, clutching at the rim to stay grounded. Let the chill seep in. Stay present. With a deep breath, he looked into the mirror. And there-

His father’s face. The same dark curls brushing the same freckled ears, green eyes staring back at him. The same nose, the same lopsided grin. As Martin stared, panicked, he wondered how he had never seen it before. He looked _just like him_. How had he forgotten? His father was there, at least in the beginning, a silent sentinel at birthday parties for his young son, sitting in the back of school events. Was Martin a bad son? After all, what kind of child would forget their father’s face?

He couldn’t anymore. Not now when he realized the ghost haunting his mum was his own face.

Martin rested his head against the sink, staring down at the cheap tile. His throat was dry, painful as he swallowed down his shock. _I look just like him…_

In a panicked moment, he tore through an old journal, flipping the book upside down until a torn photo fell out. Half of a warped family, a smiling Martin in front of his parents. His mother stood sternly at his right shoulder, his father’s arm around her frail frame. Martin opened the book again, taking out the other half. With shaking fingers he lined up the tears.

There was no denying it. He was the spitting image of his father.

The chiming of his cuckoo clock startled him out of a daze, sending him scrambling off the couch. Time to face the day, time to head to work, time to put on a brave smile and carry on as if nothing was wrong.

The train was, as always, crowded with people. As Martin gripped the hanging strap, swaying slightly with the motion of it, he stared around him, trying to bring things into focus. The grinding of the wheels combined with the noise of the people crammed against him floated through the air, melodious with the song of human life.

Martin wished desperately he was part of it. Wondered what it would be like to sit in one of the seats as a young boy, sticky hand dwarfed by his mother’s warm one. To stare out the window, entranced with the way the world seemed to glow as music swelled from cheap earbuds. Would he ever get the chance to lean against the one he loved, eyes closed for a moment of rest before a busy day?

Or would it always be him? Just Martin, the man his mother couldn’t bear to see and the face he couldn’t stand, either. No wonder he was so…distant. There were words tattooed across his skin, fading into the stretch marks and faint, even scars on his wrists. Words that told the world he couldn’t be trusted, wasn’t worthy. A message to stay away unless you wanted something else in your life broken beyond repair.

So he sat, longing for something he could never have, smiling the whole time so his cracks wouldn’t show.

His hands shook as he straightened the straps on his bag, preparing to join the rush of people on the platform beyond the windows. _Smile. You are okay. You are Martin Blackwood, a helpful employee who doesn’t drive people away just by looking at them and always does his job correctly-_

The mask was heavy in his hands, heavier still on his face but he wore it faithfully.

“Good morning, Rosie!” The words didn’t fit in his mouth, they were too big for his throat. She smiled back at him Could she tell what kind of person he was, read his history in the curve of his lips? Martin felt all the things he had said printed there, waiting for someone to point to him and say _look at him. He can’t even get his mother to stay. She doesn’t love him, no one does. Why would they?_

But of course, she doesn’t. Rosie might have the supernatural ability to talk down Elias, but she wasn’t a mind reader.

Martin couldn't concentrate on his work. Every time Tim laughed he jumped slightly, pulled back into reality against his will, back to a nine-to-five at a cheap desk with a cheaper chair, scribbling notes even he couldn't decipher onto paper that _should_ have meaning.

He kept his head down, pretending he couldn't see the glances Tim and Sasha shared, pretending he wasn't hurt in any way. It was much easier to keep the mask on once you had the straps tied than to take it off and risk the messy flood of human emotion.

"Martin? Are you okay?"

"Hm? Oh, me? Of course I am! Why wouldn't I?" He laughed nervously, his voice too high _too high they'll know you're lying they’ll know you're a liar don’t say it don’t say it-_

Tim leaned back in his chair, tipping away from a computer screen showing a complicated line of code. "Well, as fun as writing down dates and their historical significance is, I've never seen you this quiet before. Something on your mind?"

_Yes yes yes yes yes yes._

“No.” Martin smiled, trying not to let his voice shake. “Just a bit tired, I guess."

Sasha looked over at him, mentally assessing him. She hummed noncommittally, returning to her work but still not ready to let the matter drop. "Are you sure? You know you can talk to us about anything."

_Not this,_ I can't, he wanted to say. Y _ou don't know what you're saying. You don't know who I am, what I've done, what I've become. I don’t deserve to be cared about this is all my fault horrible horrible-_

Instead, he scratched out another meaningless date. "Yeah, I do," he said quietly.

Tim twirled his pen thoughtfully, tapping the end of it against his jaw. "Well, if anything changes, we're always here to listen."

"Unfortunately."

"What was that, Sash?"

"You heard me, Stoker."

“Are you dissing my attempts at a bonding found family?”

Martin ducked his head down, already finding it so easy to block out their words. His hands looked so strange holding his pen. Were they his? They didn't look like they fit his body, they felt unfamiliar, foreign. Distant. Shaking.

Did his father's hands look like this? Did they hold the same mugs he used to, curling around the doorknobs Martin grew up with, squeezing his mother's arm? Gently, at first, then raised in violence. He hoped not.

There was a loud thud as Tim dropped his chair back onto all four legs. "Fine, fine, you win. I'm just saying that out of all the tropes, found family is _obviously_ the best BECAUSE they stick together. They are always there for each other. Just like us!"

Sasha's eye roll was audible. "Amateur. The there-was-only-one-bed is superior in every way. The yearning, the awkwardness, the inevitable cuddle tension, and or sexual tension? _Superb_."

"Whatever you say."

"That's right," she hummed sweetly. "I'm always right."

"Is that so?" Tim dragged a hand down his face, his nose inches from the computer screen.

"Always."

"Then can you please come tell me what I'm doing wrong? This block isn't running right and the debugger isn't picking up anything, I'm getting sick of looking through loops..."

Martin stood up as Sasha laughed and pulled Tim's computer towards her. "Anybody want some tea?" he asked, trying to make his voice as gentle as possible. Was this how his father used to sound? No, his father would never be so kind.

"Marto, you are a saint. I would love some. Sasha?"

She nodded, running her mouse over the code Tim was working on. "What is this one for, anyway?"

"Accessing the CCTV from that hospital with the burn victims remotely. This little beauty is pretty much invisible and activated from an email link. Should be able to recover the corrupted bits as well...”

Their voices faded behind him as Martin made his way to the break room, ready for the routine to busy his traitorous hands. _It’s okay, you’re okay. Just pull yourself together. Be okay be okay okay okay!_

When the kettle whistled he jumped, startled by the foreign familiarity of the sound. It was too loud for his ears, piercing the fog around his mind sharply but still sounding so, _so_ distant.

Pour the water over the teabags.

_You’re okay. He isn’t here. She can’t see you. They won’t scold you now._

Don’t overfill the mugs.

_One for me, one for Tim, one for Sasha, one for Jon. Should I-_

Watch the splash.

_Smile, smile, smile. Follow the routine. The routine is safety, the routine is comfort, the routine is-_

Don’t swear at the burn.

_Stupid useless clumsy careless stupid stupid stupid_

Run it under cold water.

_It’s just a little burn, don’t be such a baby._

Pick up the mugs, carry them back to the desks.

_Ignore the heat. Ignore the burning patch of skin. Ignore the burning behind your eyes._

“Here you go!” Martin tried to inject a note of cheeriness into his words, setting the mugs down at their respective desks.

Tim flashed a thousand-watt smile at him. “Thanks, Marto, you’re the best.”

Sasha nodded at him gratefully over her mug, still scanning Tim’s computer screen.

“No problem.” He rubbed his hand painfully, trying to erase the hurt. _Time for Jon’s._

Martin knocked a knuckle against the partially open door, announcing his presence. He had startled Jon enough times to know it was never good to sneak up on the man. “I made tea?” It came out as a question, voice tentatively leaving his throat. _Be gentle. Don’t be like dad. You are Martin. You are not like him. **You are not like him.**_

“Hm? Come in.”

He nudged the door open with his elbow, walking carefully over to the desk, his eyes trained on the tea in his hands. _Careful. Don’t. Spill._

It sloshed slightly, splashing against the rim. Why was it moving so much?

“You can set it down here.” Jon indicated the only corner of his work surface that wasn’t covered in paper and pens. Martin complied, accidentally knocking over an empty water bottle.

_Clumsy bumbling why do you have to make such a fool of yourself quit thinking apologize apologize make things okay idiot idiot idiot-_

“Oh sorry! Sorry, sorry, I’ll get that-“

Jon looked up from his work, preparing to tell him off, but at the sight of Martin hurriedly picking it up and setting it back down on the desk he stopped. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “Good heavens, man, your hands are shaking. Are you alright?”

Martin laughed nervously, wishing his body would listen to him for once. “I’m fine. Just a little- cold, I guess.” _It’s cold without people. Did you know that? People keep things warm. Not machines._

He raised an eyebrow at this. “Cold. Of course. Are you sure?”

_Was he sure? No, of course not. He wasn’t okay. He was exhausted and nervous and so very, very anxious. Worried that he would turn out like his dad, worried that his mum was right to treat him so. Ready to collapse on the spot into a heap and stay there for a very, very long time. Worried worried worried now but nobody could know they couldn’t know they shouldn’t know they wouldn’t care._

But Martin couldn’t say that. He couldn’t tell anybody, they would only tell him he was right to think that way.

“Um, yeah, I did burn my hand earlier, though.” _Good, good. Stick with something you can explain. Stick with something that won’t make them all look away in disgust. There has to be a reason for why you are acting this way don’t pretend don’t pretend pretend pretend._

Jon’s brow furrowed in uncharacteristic concern. “On what?”

The way Jon was _looking_ at him was so piercing it was painful. He saw through each and every one of the lies Martin told but said nothing. “Uh, boiling water?” Why was he so tentative?

“Why didn’t you say anything? Can I see?”

Trembling slightly Martin showed Jon his hand, the skin red and shiny on the back of it. Jon ran moth-light fingers around the burn, biting his lip. Martin hoped the pounding of his heart couldn’t be heard. It was deafening inside his chest, thumping out a rebellious song.

“There’s a first aid kit down the hall, it should have some burn cream if you want it.”

His eyes were so bright when they met Martin’s he almost buckled. Quickly he withdrew his hand, trying to breathe normally. _What a day. Was this real? Was he awake? It felt so surreal…_

“That’s fine! It doesn’t hurt-“ He cut off with a wince, his hand throbbing. _It doesn’t hurt_ , he meant to say, _it doesn’t hurt but I am hurting. I am hurting and the people I care about are hurting because of me and that is why my hands are shaking shaking shaking._

“Nope, you don’t get a choice. Let’s get that burn taken care of.” He pushed back from his desk. “One moment, please.”

Jon returned shortly, the first aid kit in his hands. He took out a small tube and looked to Martin. “May I…?”

He nodded, biting his lip as Jon helped him dress the burn. He felt his eyes water at the cooling relief, partially from the healing cream and partially from the sheer comfort of being cared about. It couldn’t last, it wouldn’t last, but he would always have this one moment.

“Why are you…” Martin trailed off as Jon closed the lid of the box. “And thank you, by the way.”

“Why am I concerned about my coworker? I think I’m allowed to be, it is a burn after all.” His voice returned to it’s normal sharpness. “And besides, can’t have this negatively affecting your performance at work.”

“No, of course not.” _He cares he cares he cares-_

“Take care of yourself. And, Martin?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you. For the tea.”

“Anytime.” The hint of a smile played across his lips as he shut the door.

Maybe he looked like his father. Maybe his hands shook when he remembered the ghosts of his childhood. Maybe he was clumsy. But for now, at least, that had to be enough.


End file.
